Captain Merryl
A day at the beach It was a beautiful morning at The Last Beach, the Empire’s northernmost outpost in Crescent. Although chilly even in summer, the sun was already at its zenith, the clear blue sky a perfect gradient to the azure sea crashing against the shore. Captain John Merryl stretched lazily, sitting in a small makeshift chair outside his tent. He still had a half hour before the changing of the guards, and he wasn’t going to waste one minute of it. Next to him, lying in the white-grained sand, was his chainmail armour, decked out with orange and blue cloth: The colours of the Empire. His bare feet embedded in the cool sand, his eyes closed. It was too perfect. “Captain Merryl, sir!” He knew it. Running towards him was one of his Corporals’; a half-elf named Peren Xiloscient. Most people simply referred to him as Pex. Merryl couldn’t fathom what his parents had been thinking. “Can it wait until after I’ve shaved, Pex?” The corporal halted awkwardly a few feet away from Merryl, gasping for breath, his armour hanging loosely from his wiry frame. “Ah… Afraid nor, sir. Got a report in just now, you see. T’was that merchant Isabella that spotted them see. Told the night guards right away, four Bullywugs spotted on the western shore. Up to no good for sure, sir.” Merryl had jumped to his feet the second Isabella’s name had been mentioned. By the time the the corporal had mentioned Bullywugs he was cursing and pulling his chainmail on over his long blonde curls. So much for his peaceful morning, he thought, struggling with his bootlaces. Pex waited patiently for him while he retrieved his Imperial long sword and shield from his tent, before they both set out at a slow jog towards the main camp. The Empires’ outpost on the remote northern island known to most as The Garden in the North wasn’t much to write home about. Made up primarily of simple canvas tents, and the odd flagpole, it nonetheless served as a vital trading post between the Empire’s capitol in the south, Anchorage, and the remote Ørgard, a village at the heart of the island. For the forty soldiers and traders that made their living off the beach however, the only visible neighbours were the freezing ocean on the one side and the rocky incline of the mountain range surrounding the island; The End Mountains, on the other. The beach, a meagre patch of land stretching out across the southern site of the island, was only forty miles long. And, Merryl thought sourly, ridden with bloody Bullywugs. “Well? Let’s hear it boys.” Merryl and Pex arrived next to where the rest of his regiment was currently gathering, swords, bows and axes at the ready. As acting commanders of the “garrison” Captain Merryl signalled for the men to fall in around him. He counted ten. He counted again. And sighed. “Where… is private Von Deerheart?” “Uhm… well. We think he might’ve been. You know…” A nervous human soldier began. “Captured by the Bullywugs… AGAIN?!” The soldiers nodded enthusiastically, glad that none of them had had to explain it to the Captain in so many words. Merryl was about to let loose a string of expletives, when he caught a glimpse of someone walking towards him. A certain someone with even tanned copper skin, raven black hair and curves that, in Pex’s words, was to DIE for. “Isabella. Good morning to you.” Merryl grinned, feeling extremely self-conscious of his unshaven jaw. Always shave first thing Merryl, he thought to himself. Stupid. Stupid. “Good morning, Captain”, her southern accent making the sentence sound like a purr. Merryl could’ve sworn his knees were about to give way. Instead he forced his grin to not widen any more. She smiled back at him. “You and your boys out to deal with the Bullywugs? As I said to Private Lorr here, there were at least three or four of them out by the large rock to the west of here. They seemed to be carrying something rather long, covered in tarp.” Merryl nodded to her, before turning towards his soldiers, who straightened once more under their commanders’ scrutiny. “You heard the woman. From the sounds of it Von Deerheart is about to become some toad man’s breakfast. As much as I like the idea of that scenario, we aren’t letting one of our own get taken out. Not on a Sunday. Am I right?” Merryl had hoped for at least a resounding cheer, maybe some applause. The soldiers’ grim nods of assent were a disappointment. Oh well. He wasn’t too enthusiastic about heading out to the sunken ship himself. He ordered Pex to bring along a couple of men and get the boats ready. Pulling a slim looking glass out of his utility belt, he gazed out towards what had once been the “Wanderlust”. Now just a heap of rotting planks ruining an otherwise lovely view of the horizon; a small galley, which had partially sunk in a storm a few years ago. No casualties, Merryl and his men had evacuated the crew and sent them back to Anchorage aboard another ship, none the worse for wear. Everyone had thought the whole thing had gone really well; drinks had been doled out generously to everyone in the settlement that night. That was before the Bullywugs moved in and the whole thing became a thorn in Merryl’s side. Bullywugs were, in Merryl’s mind, the single most disgusting species in all of Crescent. Even worse than the blood-sucking flies native to The Fields of War who’d lay their eggs in your armpits at night. Bullywugs are best described a bizarre cross between a dwarf and giant toad, two legged amphibians native to the swamps of Vorden’s Peninsula. Although seemingly intelligent, all Bullwugs are barbaric by nature, forming small thuggish communities that prey on neighbouring species, stealing valuable trinkets. But no one had ever heard of Bullywugs living at sea. Let alone in the far north, where only deep sea Kraken’s and ancient sea serpents were thought to be able to survive the freezing temperatures. Merryl sighed - typical his luck. And to top it all off, they were led by the self-proclaimed Prince Warble, Lord of the White Beach. Or whatever his title was this week. Merryl didn’t care. He wanted them gone. The small fleet of three rowing boats ploughed their way through the waves, riding the sinking tide out towards the shipwreck. Merryl, rowing alongside his men, kept casting glances over his shoulder. Occasionally he thought he could see a small, bloated head popping up between the railings. They were ready for them. A few feet from where the rotten hull stuck up out of the sea, Merryl signalled a halt. Drifting in a loose semi-circle, his men did as previously instructed. In each boat one man manned the oars, two strung an arrow to a longbow, while the rest prepared their grappling hooks. At a nod from the Captain, Corporal Pex directed his boat to the rear side of the boat, the oars barely touching the surface. Merryl’s eyes didn’t leave the ship in front of them, squinting against the sun directly overhead. The tattered remains of the sail casting lingering shadows across the lower parts of the deck. Merryl made a small gesture with his left hand and the battle begun. With a shout, Pex and his crew flung their grappling hooks, attaching them to the far side, while Merryl led the charge on the front. Together with Private Lorr he pulled himself up in only a matter of seconds, his feet thundering against the wooden planks once painted bright red – now a dull grey. One hand secured tightly around the hilt of his long sword, he vaulted over the railing, landing in a crouch upon the slanting deck, his eyes scanning the surrounding, the ocean breeze lifting his hair around his face. He felt alive. From behind him he heard a scream, and turned around just in time to see Private Lorr, a long spear embedded in his chest, slip and fall off the side. A splash seconds later. Damn it. He flung himself forwards as the second spear came flying, missing him by centimetres. Mid-jump he pulled his shield off his back, ending up in a defensive stance on the other side of the ship. He could hear Pex shouting to his left, as several arrows flew upwards from the boats below, striking the Bullywugs hiding in the mast. Two fell, squealing hideously, to their deaths in front of Merryl. The remaining ten pouring out of the lower compartments, however, were very much alive. Merryl swore. Loudly. He eyed his opponents. None of them was wearing a crown. Prince Warble wasn’t home it would seem. They croaked at him, brandishing crude clubs, dressed in rotting leathers, large yellow sticky eyes ogling him. Disgusting. “This is not how I planned my morning.” They hissed back at him. Not that he’d expected intelligent conversation. But, damn it; an apology would’ve been nice. The first Bullywug, as wide as it was tall, advanced upon him, while the others spread out in a wide semi-circle. None of Merryl’s men had made it onboard yet. He made a mental note to run boarding exercises one through five again each Sunday morning for the rest of the month. With a low growl he strode towards his opponent, and with a pirouette more graceful than the armour he was wearing would seemingly allow, he dived in and efficiently decapitated the toad in front of him, bringing his shield to bear as a javelin came flying from his left. As a second Bullywug jumped towards him, he whipped his shield around, smacking the creature square in the jaw, his leg already aiming a kick at a third who was trying to sneak up on him from behind. “Need any help, sir?” Pex leapt past him, impaling a Bullywug upon a long spear only moments before it reached Merryl. The two comrades spun around, back to back, while the remaining six creatures retreated to a safe distance, croaking menacingly. A few seconds passed in tense silence, the two opposing combatants eying each other carefully. The Bullywugs decided to attack as one, their springy legs propelling them into the air, diving down upon the Merryl and Pex. They shouldn’t have. “Paehra-kah!” Pex gestured with his fingers, activating the fiery defensive spell he had drawn around the two of them, flames springing from the deck, incinerating the Bullywugs within seconds. Some of the ash got in Merryl’s mouth, and he choked. “Euch. Your technique needs practice.” He spluttered, wiping a combination of sweat, toad blood and ash off his face. Finally it would seem the rest of his troop had made it onboard, barring Private Lorr. At least they had the decency to look embarrassed. “How is he?” Merryl inquired. “Oh, he’s fine. The spear barely dented his armour. He just forgot to attach himself to the grappling hook.” “Damn it, Lorr.” ''''